Dear Muriel
by PhoenixPatronus
Summary: Rose thought it was a great opportunity to regain Scorpius' trust. It wasn't. Scorpius thought agreeing would get Rose off his back. It wouldn't. The (illegal, mind you) body switching potion's effect was said to wear off in twenty-four hours. It didn't. Scorose bodyswitch!fic. Narrated through letters to 'Muriel'.
1. Chapter One

**A/N: Scorpius and Rose switch bodies after a childish bet. The potions effect is said to wear off after 24 hours. It doesn't. **

**A more detailed author's note is at the end of the chapter. Enjoy, read, and review!**

* * *

**Baratheon's Blog**

**or**

**What it Means to be a Man**

**(Scorpius H. Malfoy)**

* * *

In the days of my youth

I was told what it means to be a man

And now I've reached that age

I've trıed to do all those things the best I can

No matter how hard I try

I find my way to the same old jam

-Led Zeppelin

* * *

**15****th**** of December, Ten to Midnight, the Dungeons**

Dear Muriel,

Let's get a couple of things straight:

a) I do _not_ enjoy writing letters to a fictional character at _all._

b) This stupid assignment will _not_ help me 'come in terms with myself' or make me 'evaluate my daily actions more clearly' or teach me the 'importance of being true to oneself'.

c) I will _not_ be convinced that Loony Scamander has a degree in Psychological Healing until she provides me with a copy of her diploma.

This is bullshit.

This all is.

Trust Professor McGonagall to assign a nutjob as our Psych Healer.

You got to second me on this, Muriel. How the bloody hell am I supposed to take this woman who wears radishes as earrings seriously?

Being the bold person that I am, I've tried overlooking her preposterous style and abiding her idiotic teaching style for the past six years. But this?

This is the last straw.

How dare she ask us upperclassmen to write daily letters to this 'Muriel'? Doesn't she know that people in their late teens _hate_ talking (or in this case, writing) about their feelings? Let me tell you from the start, mate. I'm keeping my letters as concise as possible. In fact, I'm giving myself a 500-word limit.

Don't expect any more than that!

I haven't got much time to write, as I have a bloody _date_ with Weasley in ten minutes.

Yeah, Muriel, you read that right: I'm meeting Weasley in the fourth floor library.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't a typical date.

Merlin, no!

As if I'd make that mistake _twice_.

To understand why on earth I'm meeting that prat, you need to know a bit about today. It's safe to say it all began in today's potions class.

So let's get a recap, shall we?

* * *

(Good Times)

* * *

I seriously doubt that you've ever been in a sixth year potions class, or that you'll ever be in one, for that matter. You're one of the lucky ones that will never set foot in Hogwarts. 'What the hell?' you're asking me. 'Getting the chance to even touch one of Hogwarts' walls is a blessing!' Well, mate…

You're wrong.

Hogwarts is a jungle.

Quiet and deadly and vicious in the morning; wild crazy and, truthfully, scary at night. That's Hogwarts for you: full of wild animals, young and old. You have to put up with them until they shove a diploma in your hand and kick you out.

Seven years of your life you're never getting back.

Yeah, I'm bitter.

So what? Bite me.

Of course, Hogwarts isn't all that bad. There are a couple of things that make life bearable here like close mates, hot chicks, endless supply of anything illegal, and of course, flicking tiny eyeballs at Rose Weasley during third period.

Let me tell you, third period on Mondays are the worst. You've already been through two excruciating hours of Six-Fucking-Incredible-Steps-to-Turn-your-Fucking- Teacup-into-a-Fucking-Mouse, you're hungry and bored and you honestly don't care about the effects of Vividius Maxima, but you still have to sit through another hour of Vividius Bullshit. And then, oh boy this is the best part, you have to listen to Rubeus Hagrid overenthusiastically spewing stupid facts about Horned Whatever-the-fuck-he's-talking-about.

In a state of weariness like that, anything becomes more entertaining than Professor Slughorn babbling on and on about something that I forgot to listen to. This includes staring at my fingernails or watching that weird Ravenclaw pick her nose or trying to picture Dominique Weasley's perfectly shaped arse without a skirt cladding it. The last option is significantly time consuming if she's standing right in front of you, leaning towards her desk, with her arse very close to your face.

And… there comes the boner!

For the next few minutes, I flex my arm to get the blood flow to leave Scorpius Jr. and think of my naked Grandfather, a little technique Al and I came up with in second year to avoid a lifetime of humiliation.

(Albus fucking Dumbledore, _why _did I just write that? Loony Scamander will read these!)

I glance at Al, who is simultaneously writing down notes and listening to Slughorn. Thank Dumbledore… He hasn't seen what just happened.

"I saw that," he mumbles eventually, not looking away from his notebook. "And I swear to Merlin I won't ever lend you my notes again if you keep staring at Dom's lady parts."

A stupid threat like that isn't something a normal person would care about, but I practically live off of Al's notes. The thing about me, is that I try to avoid listening to the Professors' crap during the classes, and then I just read Al's notes in the breaks and do a bit of self-studying with the books at night.

And voilà, my grades range between Es and Os, which proves my point about teachers being completely useless. Believe me, the government could be doing much better things with their paychecks.

However, pointing that out to Professor McGonnagall is apparently a terrible idea and will get you a half-hour long lecture and two days in detention.

Slughorn finally notices that half the class doesn't give a rat's arse about Vividius Maxi-something, and proceeds to give us the instructions to brew Melmaboar, some sort of healing potion.

"It's a very easy potion to brew," he says, "so it should take you less than fifteen minutes to get it done. Best one in class gets a can of crystalized pineapples! Get into pairs now. Go on."

Al, ever the potions geek, immediately dashes to the cupboard to get the needed ingredients. He comes back as quickly as he left and shoves a jar of eyeballs in my hands. "Cut them into quarters. Try to make them equal."

"Shall I cut them with determination or with love?" I ask sarcastically.

Not quite catching the sarcasm, he mumbles, "Both."

I roll my eyes and take an eyeball from the jar. Damn it, it's slippery. By the time I've managed to cut six eyeballs in perfectly equal quarters, Al has already chopped up the Mandrake root, boiled the Vividius Maxima, and diluted the bull saliva. I sit back and observe my classmates as Al adds the eyeballs to the boiling brew.

Everyone else around us is still struggling with the third or fourth step, but Al and I are almost done. These are the perks of having Albus Severus Potter as my best mate.

Ten minutes later, almost everyone is ready, and bored out of their minds too. In front of me, Rose Weasley seems to be growing frustrated. "It's supposed to be pink, Dom," Weasley snaps at her friend. "Not freaking purple!"

Dom seems like she honestly couldn't care less. She scans the cauldron and shrugs. "Let it boil for a bit, luv, it'll get better."

Weasley makes a sound between a dying cat and a hippopotamus having an orgasm as she sits down and rests her head on the table. I catch Dom's eye and she mouths "Crazy." We share a silent laugh, which is interrupted by a very disappointed looking Slughorn.

"Tsk tsk tsk." He overplays it, as always. "I expected better from you girls."

Neither of the say anything and he turns his attention to our cauldron. "Nice work there, boys. It seems to be slightly thick, though."

Al looks like his world has shattered before his eyes. He begins mumbling apologies and explanations, not noticing Slughorn is long gone.

I snort. "Nerd."

"Oh, shut it."

Slughorn tells us that we've got ten minutes before the bell, and we're free to do whatever we want. That, of course, isn't so appealing to me, seeing as I've been doing exactly that since class began.

Beside me, Al puts his head down for one of his 'power naps'. I guess it's something that runs in the family, because Weasley and Dom proceed to do so too.

That's when I get the idea.

To flick eyeballs at Weasley, I mean.

The first one I flick hits Dom on the nose by accident, when she raises her head to stretch.

I put my finger to my lips in a gesture for her to be quiet, and then motion to Weasley with my eyes. Dom rolls her eyes in an 'I really don't want to deal with your childish crap' kind of way.

The second one I flick, lands on Weasley's curly mess of a hair. To my surprise, it sticks there, and she doesn't even notice. And thus begins my game of how many eyeballs can fit the surface of Weasley's hair before the bell.

By the time the bell rings, her hair looks like a red Christmas tree with eyeballs for baubles. Dom's the first one to notice, and hesitates to tell her. "Dom, please," I mouth at her. "I'll give you chocolate." With a tiny nod, she agrees to keep silent. At least she's gracious enough to look guilty.

"That's not gonna end well," Albus tells me as we walk out of class. "Don't say I didn't tell you so." He then proceeds to hand me his stack of notes.

"Both you and Dom are shitty cousins, you know that, right?" I smirk at him. "You could've been kind enough to warn her."

He shrugs. "I'm still mad at her. With what happened over summer, I mean..."

Oh, Merlin. No. We're _so_ not getting into this.

_Nope._

"What are we doing after dinner?" I ask hastily.

"I have Quidditch practice," he sighs. "Two hours of Crawford riding our arses."

"Oh." I try not to sound too disappointed. "Ok."

"D'you wanna go to the Astronomy Tower after I'm done?" he asks. "We'll get some stuff from James."

"I can't, I'm tutoring Renley at eight tonight."

You see, by the time a pupil is in their second year, they have to decide on what extracurricular activities they want to waste their time with. Most join two or three clubs, like Dominique Weasley who is both in the Ravenclaw cheer squad and the drama club. Some prefer to focus on one thing like Al and James, who are the star players of the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams, respectively. Some, like me, have no passion or talent or any sort of trait that makes them even remotely interesting so they end up joining the Tutor Center. If they're smart enough, of course.

The Tutor Center is a club that was formed roughly around the time I started Hogwarts. It is limited to having twenty tutors each year. Usually when seventh year tutors graduate, second or third year tutors join. Some sort of written and interactive test have to be taken to show that you're qualified enough to be a tutor. Once you're in, it's a year-long commitment. Your grades are dragged down if you decide that you want to quit in the middle of the semester. You're only allowed to resign by the end of each school year.

Weasley and Dom walk past us. Every student they walk by sniggers at the Christmas tree on top of Weasley's hair.

"I did that," I whisper to a group of fifth year Hufflepuffs, which earns me a high-five from a particularly hot member of their clique.

"Have you no shame?" Albus hisses at me.

"Dunno," I laugh. "You tell me."

Al and I linger in the corridor for a bit, walking slowly behind the two Weasleys. Al's being my guide while I read his notes, so I don't walk into a wall or something. Suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks and pulls me back in my arm. "Oh, Merlin, this is so not gonna end well."

I look up and see Man-Bear walk up to Weasley and Dom and put his arms over their shoulders.

"And how are my two favorite Ravenclaws today?" Then he stops and frowns at Weasley. "What's with your hair?"

A very confused Weasley reaches up to her head and her hand catches a slimy little sphere. It's all very difficult not to burst out laughing at the crimson shade her face becomes. Man-Bear furiously looks up and catches me sniggering. "Did you do this?" His voice echoes in the almost empty hallway.

After that, Weasley's face doesn't seem so funny anymore.

To understand why I'm suddenly contemplating about changing my name to Rick and moving to Kenya, you have to know a bit about Man-Bear. Man-Bear, commonly known as Lorcan Scamander, is a very, very big fellow who can easily knock you out with one punch. He's pretty much everything girls wet their panties over. Worst of all, he's one of Rose Weasley's best mates, which means you risk your life by messing with Weasley.

Let's look at the stats now, shall we? Man-Bear: big, buff, seventh year Ravenclaw Quidditch captain.

Versus me.

Me.

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy: Freakishly tall yet lacking any sort of muscle, except for the ones on his backside, which give him a lady-butt (fine one at that, though), scrawny, lanky, and can't get on a broom to save his life. Plus, would end up breaking his arm if he tried to throw a punch.

Need I go on?

Man-Bear knows that if he tries to duel me, I'm gonna wipe the floor with his arse. That's why he dashes towards me instead of civilly dealing with the problem. Al steps in front of me protectively, which pisses me off even more. I mean, getting your arse kicked is pretty embarrassing but getting your arse saved is even worse.

What really comes as a shocker is that Weasley runs after Man-Bear and grabs his wrist. "Lorcan, come on. He's not worth detention. Yeah, come on. You're gonna be late to class. I'll talk to you at lunch, alright? Go on. Ok. See you. Bye…"

"Put your dog on a leash, will you," Al growls at Weasley after Man-Bear leaves.

"Keep your monkey in a cage, then," she retorts, glaring at me.

Ouch.

"I'm putting both of you in a kennel if you don't stop," Dom snaps at her cousins. She looks up at me apologetically, and then drags Weasley off to Charms.

Al and I watch the pair leave, not uttering a single word. We're silent for most of our way to Hagrid's hut until he mutters, "Told you so."

* * *

(Bad Times)

* * *

Not much happens until later that night. It's almost seven p.m. and I'm sitting alone in the tiny fourth floor library. You know, the one that is almost always empty.

Talk about having a life…

Right now Al, Alec, Maya, and Colin are getting their arses whooped at Quidditch practice; Chastity, Anika, and Troy are at some drama club meeting; James has to help Lily out with a stupid divination project, and yes, I'm talking about the Potters; and Dom's off on a 'date' with her new shag buddy.

Which is why I'm adding this to the list of reasons why I really, really hate Mondays: every single person I usually hang out with is busy. Sometimes, if I'm lucky enough, I get to spend half an hour with Dom. We don't do much talking, though.

Today, unfortunately, I won't get a much-needed half-hour with Dom. Instead, I have my nose buried in Transfiguration:Year Six, trying to catch up with what I missed in class this morning.

I'm not enjoying myself, but at least I have my privacy. That is, however, until I hear Man-Bear's bark. "Malfoy, you and I need to chat."

I look up to see Man-Bear towering over me, until I stand up, at least. "What do you want, Scamander?"

"What do _I _want? What do _you _want, Malfoy, from Rose?"

"Not much, really. A blowjob would be nice, though."

His face turns bright red. "You're really getting on my nerves, you know that, don't you Malfoy?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Won't ever happen again."

He, apparently, doesn't appreciate sarcasm.

"Wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you. What the hell did you think you were doing this morning?"

"Oh, where's your Christmas spirit?" I snort. "Weasley's head makes a nice tree. She ought to thank me, since I made it look somewhat presentable."

He pushes me to the wall. "You smug bastard," he sneers. "You should feel grateful that Rose is gracious enough to spare a glance at you."

"You see, Scamander," I say, chuckling. "Not everyone creams their pants when a female looks at them. I think you should get that checked out."

I know I'm pushing my luck. Scamander is going to explode any second now.

"Listen, Malfoy," he says forcefully. "I really don't want to hurt you but-"

I snort. "Hurt me? You can't do shit to me with your mummy's office right around the corner."

This, of course, is hardly true. Scamander doesn't give a fuck about how much trouble he'll get into. Besides, our lovely guidance counselor isn't very fond of me.

Being a Death Eater's son and all.

Story of my life.

"You think?" growls Scamander. "Try me, Malfoy."

By now, I have no idea why I'm pushing Scamander to his limit. My mind tells me to somehow ditch the library and avoid Scamander for a while. My mouth evidently disagrees.

"Hit me with your best shot," I say with a defiant shrug.

And he does.

His best, turns out, is _pretty _good. My lip immediately splits, and I can almost hear the ripping sound. I know he won't continue. Scamander is at least honorable enough to not hit someone who won't fight back. That doesn't mean he'll stop talking, though.

"It must be like this every day for you," he sneers. "You just can't stop picking fights, can't you? Tell me, Malfoy, do you enjoy getting your arse kicked? Or is this some sort of sick fetish of

yours?" I open my mouth to retort but he points a warning finger at me. "Don't. Just shut the hell up for Dumbledore's sake."

He stomps out after that without saying another word. I don't realize I'm sitting on the floor until then. I scoot closer to the wall, bring my knees up, and rest my head on them.

A typical Monday for Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, ladies and gents.

Scamander is right about the picking fights thing. Almost twice a week I find myself in McGonagall or Lupin's office, McGonagall what with her being the headmistress, and Lupin being the head of Slytherin. This incident is one of the few lucky ones that no one is around to witness, which means, I won't get into trouble as long as I don't visit Madam Pomfrey. The poor healer thinks I'm a victim of bullying or something, and swears to owl my parents every time I pay her office a visit.

I won't risk going to her, though. Fixing a split lip can't be that hard.

I raise my head from my knees to see that I've bled onto my trousers. I also catch a glimpse of a pair of ballet flats from the corner of my eyes. I look up to see Rose Weasley staring down at me.

"Came to join the party, did you?"

"I came to check up on you, actually," she tells me as she crosses her arms. "I saw Lorcan in the corridor and he told me-"

"How considerate of you," I cut her off. "Thanks. Really. I appreciate it_ so _much."

"No need to be so feisty, Malf-"

"Now if you could be kind enough to leave," I continue. "Unless you have booze, of course."

She lets out an impatient huff. "Malfoy, I'm here to _fix_ you."

"I'm pretty sure Madam Pomfrey can do that."

"Sure she can. Right after she has a nice chat with your parents."

"And you think I care, why?"

"Because the last thing you want your parents to think is that their precious son is being bullied."

She's imitating the argument Al and I had last week. That's the downside of being best mates with Albus Severus Potter. His siblings and cousins end up hearing a bunch of things you'd never tell them, simply because he can't keep his mouth shut.

"It's hardly being bullied if I'm asking for it." I feel stupid immediately after I say that. Why am I arguing against myself?

"Then _why _are you asking for it?"

"For kicks, really. Not as in the actual kicks. I mean that I enjoy the adrenaline. No, really. It's awesome."

"I would appreciate your sarcasm any other time, Malfoy, but right now you're bleeding pretty badly so-"

"I can deal with it myself."

"No, you can't. So let me take a fucking look at it."

I contort my face in defeat. "Make it quick."

Pulling out her wand, she walks to me. "I can't promise that it won't hurt."

"Just make it quick," I repeat.

As she tilts my head up, she says, "If it makes you feel any better, I'm not speaking to Lorcan."

_Merlin,_ I'm feeling better already! My lip isn't hurting like a bitch anymore!

_Not._

"He was trying to be a good friend," I grumble.

_Really_, mouth? We're defending Man-Bear now?

"Yeah, and _you _are being a shitty one," she snorts.

"I'm not your friend, Weasley."

I don't regret saying it, but the awkward silence that ensues is uncomfortable as hell.

"You used to be," she says finally.

No. Nuh-uh. We're not doing this right now.

_Nope, nope, nope._

"Are you done?" I snap.

"I will be. If you wait for a sodding second."

"Hurry the hell up. I have places to be."

She scoffs. "Yeah fucking right."

"Believe it or not, Weasley, I have a bloody life."

She's quiet for a while.

After a while, "Done," she says. "Did my best. It'll sting for a few hours."

"Great. Thanks. Are you going to leave now? I have a Hufflepuff to tutor in forty minutes."

"What a coincidence," Weasley chirps. "So do I." She proceeds to take a stack of books out of her rucksack and slam them on a table. "Hope you don't mind sharing the library with me and Renley."

"Renley? Weasley, _I'm _tutoring him. Not you."

She raises her eyebrows. "Didn't he tell you? He changed tutors. Decided that he liked my teaching style better, I suppose. He was supposed to tell you yesterday."

_Fan-fucking-tastic._

"Can today get any shittier? Isn't there a daily limit or something? Or is today the 'Annual Fuck a Malfoy over Day'?"

"Oh, hush." She scowls. "Be thankful you little shit. You wouldn't survive a day as me."

"Because your life must be _so_ hard: '_Oh no, Dom ate the last croissant. Squeal, they discontinued my favorite nail polish color. Gasp! I BROKE A NAIL!'." _I imitate with a shrill voice.

"Sounds rough, Weasley. I'm so sorry."

"Yes, Malfoy. Bravo. You're completely right. Those are my daily horrors. My nails and a bloody croissant. Merlin, it hurts to think about it. Oh, _how _do I survive each day?"

Is it just me, or is her deadpan voice fucking creepy?

"_Your _life must be hell," she goes on. "_Ugh, I have no clean socks left. Grumble grumble, _why _did that guy I insulted for a whole day hit me? What did I do wrong? Merlin, I HAVE HERPES."_

I roll my eyes. "I do _not_ have herpes, and _you_ have no idea what it feels like to have a tough life."

"You wouldn't survive a _day _as me, Malfoy."

"Psh. Try being a Malfoy for a day."

"FINE!" she bursts out. "_Fine._ I'll be you for a day and you can be me. Maybe that'll teach you not to be such a little bitch all the time."

"That's truly ingenious, Weasley. How did _I _never think of that? Oh, right, because it's _fucking impossible._"

"No, it's not." She pulls out her laptop from her rucksack. "Nothing is impossible when you have the Wizardnet," she mimics the TV commercial.

'What the hell is a Wizardnet?' you're asking.

The Wizardnet is the product of twelve stoned members of the Department of Naming Stuff having a meeting. In other words, it's the Wızarding World version of the muggle Internet. It has magical versions of all the populars muggle websites. Some of the most popular ones are Wizbook, Wroogle, Wizipedia, Wandblr, W-mail, Critter, and Vootube.

I don't know what the Ministry of Magic was smoking, but I'm pretty sure it was laced with LSD.

She takes a seat and pats the one next to her without looking away from her screen. So I sit and begin to watch her as she swiftly types 'Body Switching spells and Potions.'

"Weasley," I begin slowly. "If you don't mind me asking... What the fuck are you doing?"

"Shhh!"

"You didn't take me seriously, right?"

"I did."

"Weasley, there is no bloody way I'm swapping bodies with you."

Her head snaps up. "I dare you, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. _I double dare you._"

Merlin.

No.

She did _not_ just do that.

Looking satisfied with my reaction, she turns her attention back to her laptop. Throughout the next fifteen minutes, she reads various articles and goes on dozens of different websites. She's on the twenty-seventh page of Wroogle when she decides to give up.

"Ugh, give me that." I slide her laptop to me and type 'Banned Body Switching Spells and Potions.'

"Malfoy. What. The. Fuck?"

I shrug. "Everything you found was either too difficult or took too long brew. Thus, underage wizards and witches have no way of brewing the said potion or casting the said spell. The banned spells and potions must have a reason to be banned, right?"

"Yeah, like being fucking deadly," she retorts.

"_Or,_" I say, "too many minors trying to perform or brew it."

Her face is troubled for a while, until she shrugs and says, "Meh. It won't be the first illegal thing I've done."

Each website I go onto only has the name of the potion or spell, but no instructions. As I exit ' ' I'm starting to become disheartened. That's when I randomly click a link called 'Baratheon's Blog'. What catches my attention about the blog is that I have to take a survey before being allowed access to it. It's as if the administrator is trying to determine if I'm a teenager or not.

Twenty very weird questions later, I'm welcomed to the homepage of the blog. The latest entry's title reads _Switch'd. _It goes like this:

_HEY FOLKS. LET ME TELL YOU THAT I'M TAKING DOWN THIS ENTRY 48 HOURS AFTER POSTING IT. WHICH MEANS IT ONLY HAS _36.23 _LEFT._

_SO YOU DECIDED TO PLAY A LITTLE PRANK AND SWITCH BODIES WITH SOMEONE? WELL, I'VE GOT A GREAT POTION FOR YOU! IT'LL ONLY TAKE YOU HALF AN HOUR TO BREW AND THE EFFECTS WILL LAST FROM 24 HOURS TO 6 WEEKS, ACCORDING TO THE AMOUNT OF INGREDIENTS YOU ADD._

_JUST REMEMBER THAT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC, FOLKS, HAS BANNED THIS POTION!_

"This is great," Weasley whispers to me. "You can take care of it while I'm tutoring Renley."

"Wha-? No. No way am I brewing it. _Nope._"

She sighs. "Fine, you're such a pansy. Tutor Renley for today, I'll get it done." She puts her laptop and her books back in her bag. "Meet me back here at midnight."

"Alright."

She winks at me and hurries out of the library.

_What the hell did I just agree to?_

* * *

(I've Had My Share)

* * *

Holy Hell, it's half past midnight right now and I'm _way_ over my 500-word limit. I've even written a bit about my feelings!

I'm becoming Albus Severus Potter!

Joke aside; Weasley is probably going to decapitate me for being so late, so I should get going.

I'm regretting agreeing to Weasley's stupid little bet very, _very_ much. On the bright side, as of a couple of minutes, I'll know how it feels to have tits.

Yours truly, Scorpius I'm-so-Fucked Malfoy.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, friend! I'm not sure if you've read the whole chapter, or just skipped to the end. Doesn't matter. What matters is that you're reading this right now. Maybe you know me, Ece, from my previous (and discontinued) Scorose story, The Thorns of a Rose. Maybe you follow my blog, .com. Or maybe, we haven't met yet, and you coincidentally stumbled upon this story. Well...**

**Congratulations, friend! Thank you for reading, and please do leave a review. Not only are reviews a great source of feedback, but also immensely motivational. **

**Feel free to PM me or drop an ask in my tumblr ask box. **

**TTFN**


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N: Thank for all the amazing feedback! Love you little nuggets!**

* * *

**Previously on Dear Muriel****_:_**_ On the night of the 15th, ten minutes to the 16th, Scorpius Malfoy writes his first letter to a fictional woman named 'Muriel' due to an assignment given by the psych healer of Hogwarts, Luna Scamander. He tells Muriel that he hasn't got much time to write as he's got a 'bloody date' with Rose Weasley in ten minutes. He proceeds to explain what led to this date. After a chain of events which leave Rose and Scorpius alone in the fourth floor library, the two decide to make a bet about who has the tougher life. At the end of the chapter Scorpius tells Muriel that he's thirty minutes late and he needs to go to the library where he's supposed to meet Rose and take a body switching potion that supposedly lasts for 24 hours._

* * *

**No Loopholes, No Exceptions**

**Or**

**Leave My Body**

**(Rose N. Weasley)**

* * *

I'm gonna leave my body

(Moving up to higher ground)

I'm gonna lose my mind

(My history keeps pulling me down)

-Florence and the Machine

* * *

**17****th**** of December, Forty past Midnight, the Sixth Year Slytherin Boys' Dormitory**

Dear Muriel,

When asked what he valued most in a person, a friend of mine replied with 'honesty.' When asked what he valued most in a story, he repeated.

Honesty.

Approximately three months have passed since his words, and I'm still struggling to comprehend what he meant. This friend is the most pretentious git you'll ever have the fortune of meeting in your life. He'll spontaneously break out into a monologue or quote some muggle author or give you _much-needed _advice. You'll spend the next couple of days trying to decipher what he's said, and unwillingly so, because it'll be stuck in your head.

These words, however, were perhaps the simplest he's ever spoken, and yet I haven't understood one bit. How the bloody hell can a story be honest?

I've been writing for years now, Muriel. Stories, essays, poems, drafts which are never completed… Some play Quidditch to relieve their stress and anger. They exercise or go out for a walk or read a well-written book. Some can't cope with it, so they drink, smoke, cry in a corner, or even harm themselves.

I write.

I write when I feel like there isn't a bloody soul on earth who's willing to listen to me. I write when I feel lonely. I write when Luna says it'll cover seventy-five percent of our grade this year.

Yes, Muriel, I'm writing to you because I've got absolutely no choice if I want to pass this class. 'Class' wouldn't be the right definition. It's just some sort of meeting all fifth, sixth, and seventh year students are obliged to attend twice a week all together, and then individually once a month; a meeting where we're required to talk about our emotions. Or we fail.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm the only student in the whole meeting who doesn't mind this assignment. Students groaning and moaning, one of them, namely James Potter the Twat, exclaiming 'No bloody way, Loony!', and a couple getting up to leave made it obvious that no one was very fond of the idea. Honestly, Muriel, I was the only person in the classroom who seemed remotely pleased. Even got scowls from my mates who caught me smiling.

Poor Lorcan… He looked ready to jump off a cliff without his broomstick. Oh, the daily horrors we have to go through because of our parents.

Lucky for him, now there are juicier pieces of gossip in the Hogwarts Gossip Mill, and funnier things to laugh at rather than what a lunatic Professor Scamander is. Such as…hmm…'Scorpius Malfoy' kissing Marc Krum (the Hotty-Hot-Hotty) full on the lips? 'Rose Weasley' pissing herself in class? The two of them wrestling right afterwards, leaving 'Scorpius' with bloody scratches on his face and 'Rose' with a broken nose? Oh, Muriel…

We messed up.

We messed up _badly_.

I'm writing these lines as I'm sitting on Scorpius' bed, impatiently waiting for the twenty-four hours to be over. Only twenty minutes to go. This is rather challenging as the air in the sixth-year Slytherin boys' dormitory is heavy with smoke. These twits, unfortunately including my former best friend Albus, smoke like the chimney on top of Hogwarts Express.

They've all been trying to comfort 'me' for the past three hours, avoiding the subject of the embarrassing things 'I've' done and focusing on everything 'Rose Weasley' did. Oh, only if they knew.

So as I'm waiting to be zapped back into my own body, I'm doing my best not to die from lung cancer or kill myself. As soon as I'm back in my body the first thing I'll do is take a warm bath. And drown myself there.

That is, if Scorpius hasn't already done it.

Muriel, today was a disaster. Where do I begin to tell you?

* * *

(I Don't Want Your Future)

* * *

**The Previous Night, 16th of December, Half past Midnight, Fourth Floor Library**

Merlin, does he drive me crazy. Hands in his pockets, leaning slightly forward, standing there, and trying to catch his breath—but subtly so. He doesn't want me to know he ran here, does he? No, obviously he doesn't feel guilty about being thirty minutes late.

No, _of course not_.

He's a rebel after all. He's apathetic. Couldn't care less. _Merlin,_ is he a bad boy.

"Am I late?" he asks casually.

"No more than I am," I lie through my teeth. "Came here just a second ago."

It's not like I've been sitting here for a good hour, fidgeting about him arriving. Merlin, am I pathetic. What was I thinking, coming here half an hour early?

"I got caught up in writing the stupid letter to Muriel," he says, taking a seat across me. I can't help but notice how he mentions you, Muriel, as if you're a real person. I almost find it cute.

Almost.

"It's just so bloody time consuming," he continues, running his hand through his hair in frustration. I try to not notice how it sticks up in a goofy way. Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin. _I need to stop paying attention to the git. Remember how well that worked out last time? "It's stripping me from all those glorious hours I can spend on doing nothing."

Shrugging my shoulders, I reply, "You might as well do something productive in your life, Scorpius. Life's too short to waste it doing nothing."

He smirks. "Thanks for the words of wisdom, Weasley. Let me right that down on my Advice-Old-People-Gave-Me-That-I'll-Never-Pay-Atte ntion-To notebook."

Merlin. _Merlin. _He's calling me 'Weasley'.

Oh, Merlin's bloody balls, I need to stop saying 'Merlin' so much.

See, Muriel, that's what happens when your mother coaxes your father to say 'Merlin' instead of cusswords when you're a small kid. It fucks you up mentally.

"Why are you doing that?" he asks, snapping me back to reality.

"Doing what?"

"Scowling at the thin air."

"Oh, that?" I let out a nervous laugh. "I, erm, do that when I, er—"

"Right." He rolls his eyes. "When you're thinking. Well don't do it, you look stupid. Been meaning to tell you that for the past, let's see… Six years?"

"I'll scowl at the nothingness as much as I bloody plea—"

"_Nothingness? _You're making up words now?"

"'Nothingness' is a legitimate word, you walnut. Cut the crap, will you? We haven't got all night. It's already quarter to one."

"Right, I forgot you need your beauty sleep. And lots of it, too."

I open my mouth to retort, but he interrupts. "Do you have the potion?"

"_Potions," _I correct him. "We both need one." I pull out two tiny, onyx vials from my rucksack and slam them on the table between us. "Freshly brewed, best quality."

He takes one in his hand and examines it. "Doubt it. Looks more like poison than a body-switching potion. Are you sure you've got it right?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, _yes!" _I huff. "I followed the directions carefully. It looks exactly like the picture on Baratheon's Blog."

"How does it work, then?"

"We exchange saliva before downing the potion. It's supposed to take effect in thirty seconds to two minutes," I explain and he immediately frowns.

"Weasley, I won't kiss you."

"I didn't say _kiss_, you bloody moron."

"How else are we supposed to exchange saliva, genius?"

"I…"

"Haven't thought that part out?" he finishes my sentence, glaring at me. "Fine. _Whatever_. Won't be our first time, anyway."

Silence and tension rise up in the room for a handful of seconds before I say; "I'm ready when you are."

"Shouldn't we discuss it first?"

I nod. "Writing down a couple of rules won't hurt, either." I walk to a table behind ours to retrieve a piece of parchment and a quill. Ironic, isn't it? We've got the whole 'Internet connection in Hogwarts' thing going but we still use parchment and quills.

Scorpius pulls the supplies to himself and declares the first rule out loud as he scribbles it down. "_No actions that will be regretted by the owner of the body next morning are allowed. _Let me explain that to you, Weasley. It means that neither of us is allowed to make a fool out of each other. No loopholes, no exceptions."

I grab the quill from him and write down the second rule, and proceed to read it out loud. "_Using the body as a spy is forbidden_. Which means, Scorpius, you can't go up to my friends and try to receive personal information about yourself, me, anything, or anyone. No loopholes, no exceptions."

"Why would I want to 'receive information about you?'" he scoffs. "I'm already aware of anything I need to know. You're annoying, shallow, and selfish. There isn't much else to you."

_Ouch_.

Talk about below the belt…

I continue. "_No starting fights or arguments with each others' mates. _No loopholes, no exceptions."

_ "Acting dumb on purpose in classes or failing a quiz is not allowed. _No loopholes, no exceptions."

_ "No bathroom activities. Seeing each other naked is not allowed. _No loopholes, no exceptions."

There's that _lovely_ smirk again. "As if I haven't already."

"Oh, shut your pie-hole."

"What are the consequences of breaking the rules?" he asks as he gets up from his chair to return the quill to the table.

"Death penalty?" I suggest innocently.

Squinting at me, he replies, "How are you not locked up in Azkaban?"

"I cover my tracks."

"Bloody lunatic…"

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Weasley." He sits back down, slouching and crossing his arms. "We haven't decided what the winner gets, either. And who chooses the winner ."

"By the end of the day whoever isn't traumatized or scarred for life gets the grand prize."

"And the grand prize is?"

I try not to meet his icy blue eyes as I say, "If I win, you give me another chance. You accept my apology and we give our…friendship another shot."

"Our _friendship_?" He shakes his head, laughing. "How about no."

"Scorpius!" I snap in frustration. "I'm just asking you to be my friend again, alright? Nothing more. Just friends."

He looks up and catches my stare. Blue locked on blue. A smile tugs on his lips. A cruel one. "Fine. You got yourself a deal. And if _I_ win," he drawls, sitting straighter. "You hook me up with Dominique. And, no, I don't mean a one-night stand. I want an actual relationship with her."

He wants _what?_

Trying to keep my face clear of any emotion, I tell him, "I can't work miracles, Scorpius. What makes you so sure I can convince her to go out with you?"

"She already spends an hour every night with me," says Scorpius. "Surely she wouldn't mind spending six."

_Excuse me?_

"What's that supposed to mean?" I hiss. "Have you two been—been _sleeping_?"

A smirk pasted on his face, he glances up at the clock right above the door. "Will you look at the time, Rosie. We should get moving."

"_Scorpius!"_

He gets up and picks up one of the bottles. "Quite nosy, aren't you? If you're so curious, ask Dom yourself."

Psh. I don't need to ask her to know the answer. Dom would _never_ shag Scorpius Malfoy. What kind of best friend shags their best friend's ex? Not mine! Right?

_Right?_

I grasp the other bottle, not leaving my seat.

Scorpius turns my chair towards him, and crouches in front of me, coming to eye level. "Is this the part where I shove my tongue down your throat?"

And at that moment there's nothing I'm able to do but nod.

I've kissed Scorpius Malfoy before, Muriel. Snogging is included in the requirements of having a relationship, especially if you're keeping it a secret. The risk of being caught adds up to the thrill of snogging.

Before you realize, it's all you think about.

You catch yourself staring at him in Divination and your best friend has to pinch you to drag your head down from the clouds. You find yourself begging the Head Girl and your cousin, Molly Weasley, to arrange the prefect patrols so you're together with him almost every night. He comes to The Three Broomsticks with his mates and you come with yours. You excuse yourselves to the bathroom so you can snog until you're breath to breath and you're giggling like an innocent little girl. There's nothing innocent about it, however, seeing that he's got his hand under your shirt and you've got yours in his pants.

Slowly, you begin to memorize his snogging patterns. How he pulls your hair lightly or how he's got a shy tongue or how he likes to bite your lower lip. Every once in a while, when he's gotten into a fight and ended up in the hospital wing or argued with Teddy, you'll notice how aggressive the kisses become. How he pulls your hair a little bit too tightly or how he'll bite your lip slightly harder than before.

This kiss is definitely an aggressive kiss.

It lasts Merlin knows how long, but I feel like it's been dozens of hours and mere seconds at the same time. When he pulls away his eyes are open and I regret keeping mine closed for too long. We're quiet for a while. At length, he uncorks the bottle and mutters, "Cheers."

"Cheers," I repeat, and drink the tiny bottle in one swallow.

A bittersweet aroma circulates through my mouth. It resembles dark chocolate, with a hint of cinnamon and ginger. Burning, the clear liquid flows down my throat, which causes me to cough. Scorpius takes his time drinking, and starts gagging and spluttering when he finally brings the bottle down from his lips. A grimace spreading through his face, he wipes his chin from where the potion has spilled with the back of his hand.

He brushes off his disgust rather quickly. "What was in that potion, Weasley?"

I don't answer him. "What did it taste like to you?"

He gets up from the floors and drops himself on the chair again. "My mum used to give this medicine to me when I was sick—I got sick often as a child—and I loved the taste of it. I remember it being green, so it was either green apple or lime flavored. I nicked the bottle from our medicine cabinet one day and chugged down the whole thing. Oh, Albus fucking Dumbledore, I can't stand the taste of that thing anymore." He cringes.

The potion tasted like something that he once loved but now can't stand to him? That's _absolutely reassuring_, considering the potion is suppose to taste like me—in a metaphorical way—to him and vica versa. This 'Baratheon' bloke wrote that it was similar to Amortentia in this sense.

I break out in a shiver, my fingers and face feeling numb. Glancing at Scorpius, I see how white his face has become. He catches my gaze and mumbles, "I feel sick."

"Any moment now," I whisper, shutting my eyes tight. For a fraction of a second, my head feels as if it'll explode all over the fourth floor library. The sensation passes as quickly as it came, but leaves me shaking. I don't open my eyes for a while, and neither of us says a thing. The silence is shattered by hysterical laughter.

"Rose!" Scorpius gasps through his laughter. "Check me out, I have _boobs!"_

I dare to open my eyes only to see myself giggling like a drunkard in front of me.

It takes all the willpower I have not to lose my mind.

* * *

(I Don't Need Your Past)

* * *

**That Morning, 16th of December, Five Twenty-four, the Sixth Year Slytherin Boys' Dormitory**

Shaking and covered in sweat, I wake with a start from my restless sleep. My stomach feels as if it's up in my lungs and my heart pounds against my new, breast-less chest. And, _Merlin_, my head hurts like a bitch. The four-poster bed's emerald and silver curtains are a spinning blur around me until I fully regain my vision. When I regain full consciousness I rip the curtains open, hoping for some sunlight in vain. The alarm clock between Al and Scorpius' four-poster flashes '5.24' in green, which means I've gotten exactly three hours and thirteen minutes worth of sleep, not considering the constant jolting awake.

Great. I hope dark bags under his eyes suit Scorpius, because that's what his body will be wearing for the whole bloody day.

Deciding I won't be able to fall asleep now, I jump off—fall out, more like—the bed. My search for Scorpius' school uniform is not as silent as his dorm mates please and I get barked at by three other adolescent boys, namely Albus Severus Potter the bane of my existence, Alec Greyhound the sexy menace that no one sleeps with anymore because he's an arsehole, and Troy McLain the human whale-walrus hybrid. He's got great mates, he really does.

I figure it's not a good time to criticize Scorpius' friends whom he's insanely loyal to for some stupid reason unbeknownst to me, and get on with dressing. It takes me about fifteen minutes to make his wild mess of a hair into something decent—in a tidy fashion, at least.

It's six o'clock by the time I manage to get out of the Slytherin common room and almost all of the student are most likely asleep, classes not beginning until eight o'clock. The Great hall is empty rather than a handful of student, a couple of teachers, Nearly Headless Nick, and of course, Peeves. My parents told me all about how the Great Hall used to look before the Connective law of '13 my mum put forward. Turns out there were only four giant tables divided by the houses.

How bloody awful is _that_?

Thankfully, long before I started Hogwarts some tiny changes were made, one of them being getting rid of the four tables and replacing them with hundreds of round ones, thus abolishing _housism. _

We've all got Hermione Granger-Weasley to thank for that insanely original term.

I pass a group of younger students sipping their coffees and trying to seem at least slightly interested whilst reading the Daily Prophet—Merlin, was _I_ ever that pretentious five years ago?—and take a seat at an empty table. Pouring myself a glass of pumpkin juice proves itself to be even more difficult than shaving (imagine _that_) thanks to Scorpius' giant hands. Five full minutes and three cleaning spells later, I'm ready to enjoy my breakfast.

Enjoy breakfast?

I didn't think that was possible. I _hate_ breakfast, and yet here I am stuffing my face with a piece of toast caked with butter and jam. There I am, sitting alone at a table before the sun has even risen, devouring anything in sight like a cannibal who has had to live far away from humanity for years. Not to mention I'm in Scorpius Malfoy's body. _Merlin, _can today get any more bizarre?

Apparently, it can. I don't look up until I hear the _thud_ of someone sitting across me.

"You're up early."

"Well spotted," he smirks. "So are you."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I."

"Feeling like you're going to barf?"

"Mhm. Feeling like you've had your head continuously banged on the wall?"

"I did. About ten minutes ago before I began eating." I shove my half-eaten third piece of toast in front of him. "You've _got_ to try this. Merlin, _Merlin._ I haven't felt this hungry in years!"

Looking down at the toast on the table in distaste, he says, "Welcome to my world. Maybe next time you tell me off for eating like a wild animal you'll consider how hungry I constantly am."

"And maybe next time you decided to make a poorly constructed, not to mention misogynistic, 'are you on your period?' joke you'll try to sympathize with how miserable I am in the mornings."

"Touché."

"Stuff some muffins in your rucksack, will you. By third period you'll be starving."

When I finally decide that I've had enough food to get me through the first four lessons, I raise my head from my plate and get a good look at myself—or rather _him_. I'm quite impressed with how well he's taken care of my body. He's braided my hair and my (his?) makeup doesn't seem all that bad, not considering the bloodshot eyes.

Realizing that I'm surveying him, his hand instinctively goes up to stroke his braid. (Oh, for fuck's sake, writing these are confusing me to no end.) "I asked your mate to do this for me," he explains. "What's her name? Tina-something. The one with curly hair."

"You mean Anika?"

"Yeah, her."

"What's with the eyes?"

A grimace appears on his face. "Tried to do my makeup so I wouldn't look so suspicious. Dumbledore's sagging balls, are eyeliners dangerous." I can't help but laugh at how horrified he looks. Seeing my face, his grimace converts into a scowl. "It's all your bloody fault, y'know. You've set the bar so high up for yourself that if I looked less than perfect today someone would have noticed something was up."

I'd very much like to believe that is a compliment, but since he hasn't been anything but an arsehole to me—sadly, rightfully so—since the Summer holidays I know that it's just a jab at my perfectionism.

As he leans back to survey me, his scowl grows deeper. "Why does my hair look like one of Hagrid's pets licked it?"

"It does _not!_" I argue, unconsciously patting down my hair. "When I woke up it was too messy so—"

"My hair's _supposed _to be messy, Weasley," he groans. "It's as if you don't even know me! Oh, come here." He reaches forward to ruffle my hair. For the following few minutes I sit awkwardly through 'Rose Weasley' styling my hair. By the time he's done quite a few people have filled up the Great Hall, and at least half of them are shamelessly staring.

"Scorpius, _enough._" I hiss.

He smiles at his masterpiece and sits back down before scanning the great hall for his or my mates. "I ought to find somewhere else to sit before someone—"

"Scorpius!" we hear a distant shout. "Rose!"

Usually one can determine how close of a mate the shouter is by whether they shout your name or surname. In our case, it's impossible. Scorpius and I are cursed with being called by our first name for our whole lives—my surname being too common nowadays thanks to my huge family, and his surname being avoided just like any other ex-Death Eater last name.

The shouter shouts at us shout-ees once again, his shout coming from a nearby source. (Try saying this really fast for ten times, Muriel.)

Standing in front of us with his boyish face, toothy grin, and beanie he wears entirely wrong is the fifth-year Hufflepuff, Renley. "Scorp, buddy, listen, I gotta talk to you," he says a little bit too fast.

Aiming to stay in character, I try to scowl at how he calls me 'Scorp' and 'buddy', but the smile tugging on my lips due to his strong New York accent makes it impossible.

"What do you want, Renley?" Scorpius interjects.

"Good morning to you too, Rose," Renley laughs. "You look as pleasant as ever. Anyway, listen mate, I'm sorry about not telling you about the changing tutors thing. I figured I should've apologized last night but y'know how I get when we're studying for Ancient Ruins. It's just that Daniel Russo asked me to hook him up with Rose and I thought it'd be easier to do if she tutored me."

"_Excuse me?_" Scorpius and I simultaneously say.

He raises his hands in defense. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. Now that you guys are back together I told him I wouldn't—"

"We're not back together!" we shout simultaneously once again.

He blinks. "Jesus fucking Christ, how do you two do that? Look, never mind. I was just wondering if you could keep tutoring me."

I glance at Scorpius and see him give a tiny nod. "Fine, Renley, I'll tutor you."

Flashing a grin at us, he exclaims, "Great! I'll see you tomorrow after dinner, then. No hard feelings, right? Great. I'll see you two around, then. No kidding, Scorp, I'm sorry."

Just as he gets up to leave I sigh, "Renley, wait." I take off the beanie, revealing a mop of wavy brown hair, and put it back on his head properly. "There you go," I smile. "Now you have a shot at getting a date for James' Christmas party. Off you go, now."

As he leaves, Scorpius starts laughing. "Thank Dumbledore," he breathes. "I've been wanting to do that for ages."

I grab my rucksack and get up. "I should get going. Dom and Lysander will be here soon and I doubt they want to see me with you."

"I don't feel like dealing with your friends right now—or mine for that matter." He stuffs an apple in his bag and we walk out the door.

On our way to class I begin to feel strangely hollow inside. Not quite like hunger, but sort of like hunger and it's quite difficult to say what it is. I struggle to explain to Scorpius what's going on, in hopes of him having a cure. The hollow feels keeps getting stronger and stronger.

A chuckle escapes his lips. Not his typical chuckle but a girly one that sounds too close to a giggle. "Oh, Weasley, I believe I've got to take you to the second floor men's room."

I gape at him. "I don't like where this is going."

He rolls his eyes and grabs my wrist. "Oh, come on, you pervert; it's nothing sexual. I'll explain to you on the way but I really don't think you'll like what you hear."

In a matter of few minutes I find myself sitting on the bathroom floor with a cigarette between my fingers and a look of disgust on my face. "You have _got_ to be kidding me, Scorpius."

He shrugs and takes the cig from me to light it. "It's either this or that strange, hollow feeling in your stomach slowly dragging you to insanity."

"I'm going to smell like cat piss for the rest of the day," I whine. "Not to mention my throat will burn and I'll be one step closer to lung cancer and—"

"Oh, for Dumbledore's sake, will you _shut up?"_ he says exasperatedly. "My body's used to it so I doubt your throat will burn. Lung cancer is my problem, not yours. And also, _are you a witch or not? _You'll be smelling like daisies in a matter of seconds."

Not having a counter argument, I grudgingly snatch the lit cigarette from him. I bring it to my lips and take a drag. How relieved I feel annoys the hell out of me. I mean, _what the flipping hell?_ It's simply not fair, how something as abhorrent as a cigarette can make you feel so much better.

Scorpius crouches next to me. "How do you feel?" he asks cheekily.

"Like thousands of deadly chemicals are making their way into my bloodstream and poisoning me," I grumble.

"_My_ bloodstream," he corrects me. "Speaking of which, how did this thing even work out? You can't explain it with magic because even magic is based on science. Y'know, concentrating hard enough via gadgets like wands and spells and commanding energy or some shit."

"Oh, Merlin. Do you _really_ want me to lecture you on the fundamentals of magic?"

"Actually, yes. We've still got fifty minutes before class."

I take another drag. "Fine. Sit a bit further away. I don't want myself inhaling smoke." I pause. "Merlin, does this whole thing confuse you as much as it confuses me? I mean who is who and shit." "Like hell. Continue."

"Wait, don't you already know all about this?"

"No, Weasley. You know I got a P for my Magical Science OWL."

"Right. Well, um… You see, there are quite a few theories about what magic is and how it's possible," I begin. "Many scientists, muggle or magical, have been spending their time trying to figure this out. Although we don't have a solid argument yet, many believe that Magic is due to controlling energy. Uh, you know that energy can't be made and destroyed, right? The same energy is just circulating around, converting into different forms."

He nods. Feeling uncomfortable with having his eyes glued on me, I stare intently at the half-finished cigarrete. "Well, um, humans along with many other living beings, convert this energy. Sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously. For example you're able to see because your eyes convert the light rays into electrical signals. Or, uh, you oxidize nutrients during metabolism."

His eyes are getting slightly hazy which means his attention is being diverted. I snap my fingers at him. "What? I'm listening."

"What I'm trying to say is," I continue, "That humans convert energy. We have the potential to control energy one-hundred percent. If we did this to our full potential we would be _gods._"

He snaps back into attention, his eyes growing wide.

"Because, you know, matter is also a form of energy. Basically, existence is energy and controlling one-hundred percent of energy would mean controlling existence. Now, you see, scientists believe that some of living beings have more potential to control energy than others; wizards and witches. We are able to concentrate harder due to our genetic abilities passed on from generation to generation. Every once in a while a muggle born child will also have this ability, hence muggleborns."

He seems truly fascinated and I can't help but feel proud. Scorpius absolutely hates Magical Science, and yet he's listening to me right now as if I'm telling him a bed time story. "So what happened to us?" he asks excitedly.

"It's quite simple. Many people believe they have something called a 'soul'. Many others, including me, believe that this soul is actually the energy giving us life. The energy that influences the hormones and chemicals in our brain which causes our personality and our emotion. Now, if my energy were to seep out of my body and go into yours, and vica versa, the energy I had would start effecting _your_ brain the way it used to effect mine. So your brain would start having the same chemical reactions as the one my body used to have, thus creating Rose Weasley inside Scorpius Malfoy's body."

Frowning, he mutters, "So what you're saying is that our personality, our emotions, _us,_ are all due to some chemical reactions in our brain?"

"That's what I like to believe."

We're quiet for a while, a frown etched upon his face. He opens his mouth to say something but I silence him. "Look, there's no point in wrestling with the big picture, alright? You'll just end up hurting your mind. Forget we ever talked about this."

"_No point in wrestling with the big picture," _he mumbles to himself, a grin growing on his face. "Where the hell do you get these quotes?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it's from a hunter in a muggle television show?"

"No."

* * *

(One Bright Moment)

* * *

**A Couple of Minutes Later, 16th of December, Charms Classroom**

Other than me and Scorpius the classroom is completely empty. Surprisingly, I don't feel all that uncomfortable. I guess our little chat in the ba—

* * *

(Is All I Ask)

* * *

**Back to 17****th**** of December, Five past One O'clock, the Sixth Year Slytherin Boys' Dormitory**

Oh, Merlin's sweet Aunt Sally.

Merlin.

_Merlin._

MERLIN.

MURIEL!

IT'S ALREADY FIVE PAST ONE O'CLOCK.

WHY DO I STILL HAVE A PENIS ATTACHED TO MY BODY?!

OH, GOD.

OOOOH, GOD.

OH, SWEET MERLIN.

I FEEL SICK.

I FEEL LIKE THROWING UP.

I NEED TO STOP WRITING.

I NEED TO FIND SCORPIUS.

HE'S GOING TO KILL ME.

MERLIN.

I'LL CONTINUE WRITING LATER, MURIEL.

I HAVE TO G—

OH, MERL—

GAH, I NEED T—

YOURS TRULY, ROSE-I-THINK-I'M-GOING-TO-FAINT-WEASLEY.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, lovlies, and thank you for reading the second chapter of Dear Muriel. If you've enjoyed it, please be kind enough to leave a review and tell me what you thought about it!**

**If anyone feels confusion about the time lapses or anything, feel free to PM me or leave an ask in my ask box: .com. **

**Incidentally, MixnMingle left a review asking about the face claims. Do you guys have any suggestions? I want to make some gifs for the story so please let me know about any preferences!**

**TTFN **


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